


slide away

by inamorromani



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood, Doctor AU, M/M, Other, Surgery, except not actually., its just greys anatomy luhv, its licherally greys anatomy, some graphic descriptions of trauma i guess?, stuff like that ukno, they live in new yoik da greatest city in da woild, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: hold me down when all the world's asleep
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 19
Kudos: 109





	slide away

**Author's Note:**

> !for my friend stephanie <3 an exercise in my research skills, so much fun to write, and my absolute favorite pairing ever. thank you so much steph!!! i wouldnt want to espouse galaxy brained hashimada theories and complain about being foreign with anybody else hehehehe
> 
> as always i am notorious for putting non english languages in my fics. see bottom for translations

Generally, Hashirama’s patients describe him as compassionate- compassionate, in fact, to the point that it can sometimes feel suffocating. Of course, even then, it’s a welcome alternative to the usual sterility of the sprawling metropolitan hospital, his dazzling smile a gentler white than the starched sheets for cots, his bright, brown eyes wide and kind and his manner charismatic where other doctors could be stuffy and dispassionate. He was especially popular in the pediatric and geratic wards; tired parents adored him for his patience and enthusiasm, and the older ladies who were often referred to him as a consultant on things like cataracts and macular degeneration cooed to each other and their nurses in whisper tones about that handsome young eye doctor, Hashirama Senju. 

Comparatively, his coworkers describe him as being devoted- slavishly devoted and self-sacrificing in a way that was equal parts endearing and infuriating. Some of them wondered if he ever actually left the hospital. He could often be seen candy striping around the emergency room, suturing wounds and gossiping with nurses, taking empty wheelchairs to and from the lobby, looking sick to his stomach in the neurosurgery and cardiology operating theaters, commiserating with overtired interns over peppermints and ice water. 

His friends and family describe him as naive- not that there’s anything wrong with that. Hashirama is, and has always been, a sharp kid, eager about people and medicine and languages, but overgenerous with his spare change, easy to exploit, too soft for the city. He moved through it with ease, still eager and curious as a child, a sweetheart of club scenes and cultural centers alike- which was quite a feat, considering how little he left the hospital and the way he always, always went home alone, but he was loveable and moody and worst of all, optimistic in a way that could make your head spin circles around your neck. 

  
  
  
  


Generally, Madara’s patients describe him as stern- but not unkind. He had a steely disposition about him, and simultaneously the patience of a saint. He had a handful of regulars who joked that he was something of a drill sergeant; a hardass; a buzzkill- but truthfully, they appreciated his wry humor, his dark, forgiving eyes, the way he drifted between people like a sentinel to them. He was, admittedly, one hell of an EMT. It didn’t seem like there was a thing in the city that could unsettle him; Madara Uchiha was wrought from iron and steeped in hellfire, though apparently not for long enough that the world burnt the kindness from him.

His coworkers describe him as intense- and why shouldn’t they? Given that he drives like a fucking maniac, his bedside manner should be no different. Of course, it’s probably comforting for some patients to have an EMT who speaks slowly, who is conversational and cordial in so many languages, whose dark eyes take on a fierce, protective glint as he works, even if he likes to round the sharp corners of the city with the ambulance sirens blaring while “very blatantly, not looking at the goddamned motherfucking road, Madara”. They like to tell Madara he has the perfect temperament for social work. They also like to tell Madara that he has the perfect temperament for cage fighting and demolition derbies. 

Madara isn’t sure how his friends would describe him- he really has no friends to speak of. Not that that’s a problem, really. He has his house in the suburbs, only a forty minute commute by train from the hospital, he has his cats, and his mother and Izuna are only a Skype call away when he needs them. It’s lonely sometimes, certainly, but it’s easy to clean blood from his hands and scrub death from beneath his fingernails without somebody standing behind him and kissing his shoulder. It’s easy to let people die when there’s nobody to tell him that it isn’t his fault. 

  
  
  


It’s late one Saturday night when Hashirama sees Madara for the first time. He spots him from across the cafeteria, which is mostly empty and bathed in an unnatural, purplish glow. The room opens up into a tall glass atrium with long skylight windows in geodesic shapes. It’s strangely futuristic looking, Hashirama thinks- even with its tacky linoleum tile floors and its fake plants and bold, pastel green and blue plastic chairs. Maybe it looks like a mall food court- Hashirama changes his mind quite often. 

He’d been on call that night, and was paged to help an ENT in the emergency room- a carpenter working after hours had managed to get a faceful of sawdust, up his nose and in his eyes. Hashirama had flushed out his eyes, tired but not disinterested, and then wandered off to a nurses’ station for coffee, rubbing the top edge of his pager with his thumb just in case it started buzzing again.

He’s leaning against a fake plant in a tall, square, white plastic pot, listening to the hail pound against the skylights and massaging the bridge of his nose with his free hand when he spots easily the most beautiful man he’s ever seen nursing a cup of tea at the far edge of the room. 

The man has a beautiful profile- a neat, perfect nose that slopes slightly upward, narrow, catlike eyes that turn up in the corners in a sort of cheshire way, pouty, expressive lips and high arched brows. His dark hair is held back from his face with an alligator clip at the back of his neck, his deep, tan skin complimented by the dark blue of his uniform- which, Hashirama notes, hugs him maybe just a little too tightly, and makes him look immensely powerful, for lack of a better term. 

Hashirama pauses mid-stir, his overfull cup threatening to spill onto his hands and scald him. He spares a cautionary glance around the room- not that there was any harm in sitting down to enjoy coffee with a handsome EMT who may or may not also be on call- not really. It was a little bit unusual for EMTs to spend their idle time in the hospital, but given the inclement weather, it was more than understandable. It was late, too, and entirely possible that the EMT was just waiting for the trains to start up again. 

He crosses the cafeteria cautiously, quietly, like he’s approaching a cornered animal. Upon closer inspection, the EMT’s eyes are half open, and he has a pair of earbuds in. In the quiet of the cafeteria, Hashirama can hear a quiet, thrumming beat, some slow, indecipherable lyrics. 

Up close, the EMT is even more beautiful than Hashirama’s initial estimate- he looks like he could be as young as his early twenties or as old as his late thirties, his half-open eyes bruised from sleeplessness and weary despite being a bit unfocused. He has a natural sort of glow to his skin, the strange lights from outside casting bronze highlights across his cheekbones and his cupid’s bow.

Hashirama startles slightly when he notices the EMT’s dark eyes on him, a puzzled expression on his face. He removes an earbud and looks dully up at him. Hashirama notes that he looks incredibly, incredibly tired.

“Can I help you?” the EMT asks. His voice is gravelly, and he has a slight accent that Hashirama finds instantly endearing. He grips his coffee cup- not tight enough to crush it, thankfully- and swallows thickly. 

“Are you- are you alright?” Hashirama asks. 

The EMT squints at him. 

“Sure.”

“...Long night?” 

The EMT scoffs and draws his phone from his pocket, pausing his music. He looks up at Hashirama and smiles gently. “I wouldn’t mind some company.” 

Hashirama sets his coffee down so fast that it sloshes over the rim of his cup. The bulky plastic cafeteria chair makes an awful, high pitched sound as he yanks it from the under the table, practically groaning as Hashirama falls into it. The EMT gives him a curious look, the ghost of a smile still on his lips as he squints at the embroidery on his lab jacket.

“Hashirama Senju, M.D.,” the EMT reads, giving him a once-over, “Let me guess- pediatrics?” 

“Ophthalmology,” Hashirama corrects, cradling his coffee cup.

“Hmm…” the EMT takes a tentative sip of his tea. Hashirama grimaces- there’s a small, dark spattering of rusty, oily stains on his hands, brown blood dried beneath his fingernails. “You have a kind face,” the EMT says softly, “You seem like you’d be a pediatrician.” 

The EMT stretches out his bloodied hand and pillows his head on his bicep. He’s clearly exhausted, Hashirama thinks, no doubt overworked, or having just come off a difficult shift. Without thinking, Hashirama reaches out and takes his hand, taking his coffee stirrer from his cup and shaking it dry. 

Over his arm, the EMT gives him a puzzled look, but he doesn’t move except to offer Hashirama one of his earbuds. Hashirama takes it with a smile and places it carefully in his right ear, setting to work with his coffee stirrer cleaning the man’s fingernails as he turns his music back on. 

“I’m Madara,” the EMT says quietly, as if half awake. 

Hashirama smiles. “That’s a beautiful name. What are we listening to, Madara?”

Madara hums contentedly, turning his palm to face upward so Hashirama can better clean his fingernails. “Afro-pop,” he murmurs, “Party music. It helps me stay awake.” 

“It isn’t working too well then, is it?” Hashirama snorts. Absently, he runs his fingers over Madara’s. This might be unethical, somehow, he thinks distantly, but he’s too tired to care, and Madara is- well, really, really beautiful, and he’s looking at Hashirama with such unabashed interest, his pupils blown wide and his nice, pouty lips turned up at the corners in a foxlike little smile. 

“...No,” Madara admits, shifting slightly. His outstretched leg grazes the inside of Hashirama’s calf, and he shudders slightly as Madara’s knee falls to rest against his. 

“How long have you been working here, Madara?” Hashirama asks.

“A few months,” Madara says quietly, “I transferred from the Bronx. Manhattan is very different.”

“Oh-ho,” Hashirama chuckles, “So how is this rare moment of reprieve for you?”

Before Madara can answer, his pager buzzes wildly on the table beside him. Hashirama watches as he gives a long suffering sigh and sits upright, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from Hashirama’s. 

“Sorry,” Madara yawns, “Duty calls, you know.” 

“Right,” Hashirama says sympathetically, “Of course. It was nice meeting you.” 

“Yeah,” Madara wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and Hashirama suddenly feels uncomfortably warm, “Ah.” 

“I’m off call at six this morning,” Hashirama blurts out, “We could get breakfast.” 

Madara touches his palm tenderly, just for an instant, and then snatches his earbud back from Hashirama with a small, coy smile. “Maybe some other time, Doctor Senju. I’m off at two, and I’ll want to go home. I live in the suburbs, so I still have quite a commute to make.” 

“So you’re saying there’ll be some other time?” 

Madara snorts and gets to his feet, hastily coiling his earbuds around his phone. “Sure. If you like playing chase.” 

“Oh,” Hashirama says, thoughtfully, “Maybe. If it’s with you.”

  
  


Evidently, Hashirama does not like playing chase. Rather, he isn’t very good at it. 

Somehow, Madara managed to get to the nurses before he could pester them for any leads about his schedule- even Mito, who generally indulged Hashirama’s obnoxious neurosis, gave him a practiced, elusive look, shrugged her shoulders, winked and said, “I don’t think I know of any ‘Madara’ at this hospital, but isn’t that such a beautiful name?” 

Hashirama begins taking suspiciously long bathroom breaks when he isn’t needed somewhere- purposefully frequenting the men’s room and the water coolers and nurses’ stations on the first floor near the emergency room. He takes long laps around the cafeteria between charts and check ups -“just in case”, he’ll tell an unamused Mito. 

Generally, Mito will just roll her eyes at him, distractedly smooth a crease in her scrubs and pout at him.

“Should I be jealous?” she asks once.

“No, no. Of course not. We’re only work wife and husband, remember?” 

Mito shoves his shoulder, and Hashirama laughs. 

She was a few years older than him, already a fairly experienced nurse by the time he arrived at the hospital to finish his fellowship and start properly practicing ophthalmology. She visited him outside of work every so often with bottles of wine and small housewarming gifts, sometimes coaxed him out of his modest little brownstone apartment only to abandon him in the city’s underbelly and fall into bed with some housewife or aspiring starlet, leaving him to take a taxi home. 

It was all in good fun, of course- Hashirama admired her tremendously, both as a professional and as a person- but to him, freedom like hers was a daunting thing, maybe even as daunting as intimacy. Then again, he’d had no problem slotting himself beside Madara and admiring his hands, his face, his hair. It was out-of-character for him, alarmingly, frustratingly so, and Mito being uncooperative certainly didn’t help to stave off his impending identity crisis.

“I’ll divorce you if you don’t tell me when Madara is working,” Hashirama says suddenly. 

Mito chokes on her coffee. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth as she grimaces, blindly kicking Hashirama from the side. He stumbles a little and laughs- the ordeal catches the attention of a small pack of overtired fellows, who glare over at them where they stand near the nurses’ station. 

Hashirama heaves a loud, long-suffering sigh.

“I’m serious,” he pouts.

Mito snorts. “You’re stalking him.” 

“I am  _ not _ ,” Hashirama protests, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, “But he was so-”

“Cute,” Mito supplies.

“No-”

“Beautiful?”

“I didn’t-”

“Are you calling Madara a  _ tease _ ?” Mito gasps, her free hand coming up to cover her face as she gapes at him, “Madara? My dear friend Madara?” 

“I just want to know who he  _ is, _ ” Hashirama whines, quite like an indignant child. Mito rolls her eyes. 

“Have you checked the hospital directory?”

Hashirama freezes. Then he sucks his teeth. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you serious? Hashirama, how the fuck are you a doctor?”

Hashirama’s cheeks flush, and he opens his mouth to defend himself when his pager buzzes at his hip. Mito sets her coffee aside and shrugs into her sweatshirt. 

“I’m off for the next two days,” she says as Hashirama grimaces, struggling to polish off his still-steaming coffee, “Let me know if you want to go out for a drink or something.” 

“I will,” Hashirama says, smacking his lips and setting his half-empty cup down on the counter.

“Don’t forget to check the hospital directory!” Mito calls after him.

Hashirama smiles brightly at her and waves his hand in passing. He starts a light jog down the hallway; he’s needed in the emergency room, which is hopeful- if Madara is going to be anywhere on campus, it’ll probably be in or around the emergency room.

Through the tall hospital windows, Hashirama can see the sun hanging low above the city, can see light bouncing off bridge suspension in bright, golden-yellow lines. If he had a moment to spare, he might stop and listen to the world around him like a symphony, like a heartbeat, but his pager buzzes again and he rushes down the nearest stairwell.

The emergency room is relatively quiet, at least. In the waiting room, there’s a handful of children with sour expressions and broken bones here and there, a smattering of businessmen in paper masks still wearing wool coats and sweating profusely. There’d been two gunshot victims brought in a few hours earlier, but Hashirama had missed the commotion- he hadn’t been on campus until one was pronounced dead and the other was already being operated on, and besides, there isn’t much an opthamologist can do for a gunshot victim that a cardiologist or neurologist can’t. 

Hashirama makes his way past the information desk, giving a curt nod to the receptionist on duty before pushing open the heavy doors to the medical bay. He catches sight of a pair of work boots disappearing behind a stretcher, a flash of dark hair, and his chest tightens just a little bit. He rounds the corner and hurries to catch up with the stretcher- evidently, they’re both headed in the same direction anyways.

Madara whirls around, stumbling a bit as he rolls the stretcher. His hair is down today, framing his face on both sides and making him look unfairly young. His shirt is untucked above his hip, his sleeves rolled back slightly to reveal hands splotched with barely-there henna tattoos. Hashirama notices, maybe inappropriately, that Madara is wearing an inside-out turtleneck beneath his work clothes, and that the exposed stripe of his throat looks incredibly smooth and maybe even kissable.

“Hey,” Madara says breathlessly, “Oh. Hey-”

“Hey,” Hashirama smiles. Madara rolls the stretcher to a stop, briefly scanning the bay for an open curtain. Hashirama admires the pretty flush on his cheeks from exertion before he snaps back to his senses, closing the distance between them and resting a hand between his shoulder blades. Madara bristles.

“Is this our eye injury?” Hashirama asks, leaning over the stretcher. There’s a teenaged boy sprawled out on the stretcher, looking supremely annoyed with both of them, and unharmed except for the side of his face bright pink and swollen. He has tightly coiled bleach blonde hair, a row of nostril piercings, and the brightest blue eyes Hashirama thinks he’s ever seen. The boy glowers at him, the neat lines painted on his cheeks crinkling a little as he sneers. 

“Hal hdha altabib?” 

“Iyah,” Madara says quickly, patting the boy’s shin, “Iyah, iyah, hadha sadiqi Hashirama. 'Iinah tabib jayid.”

A little bewildered, Hashirama stays at Madara’s shoulder as they wheel the boy- who really, looks comically impatient- into an open room and pull the curtain shut behind them. Immediately, Hashirama drops onto one of the leather stools aside the cot, cleaning his hands with alcohol as the boy easily maneuvers himself from stretcher to cot. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and bites his lip, obstinately not looking at Hashirama and turning to look at Madara instead. 

“Hal yufhamani?”

“La, not if you don’t speak any English,” Madara says, smiling crookedly. The boy sticks his tongue out at him and then turns to Hashirama, a nervous expression flickering across his features. 

“Will you call my father?” he asks. Hashirama blinks at him. The boy speaks with a similar accent to Madara- probably, they both speak the same first language. Arabic- Arabic? Hashirama doesn’t think he’s heard enough Arabic to know. 

“Me, personally, no. I’ll have-” Hashirama swallows and looks up, locking eyes with Madara, who is unabashedly studying his features, “Madara, could you grab a nurse or something? They should have been here already.” 

“Yeah,” Madara says quietly, “Yeah. Sure.” He spares a last look at Hashirama and then disappears behind the curtain, leaving him alone with his patient. 

“...My name is Naruto,” the boy says, almost timidly. Hashirama smiles gently at him. 

“I’m Doctor Senju,” Hashirama offers, “It’s nice to meet you. I like your whiskers.” 

“It’s makeup,” Naruto says sheepishly.

“I like it. Looks fierce. Now, let’s make sure your eyeball hasn’t ruptured, because if it has, I’m going to need to get you into surgery sooner rather than later.” 

Hashirama examines him quickly, speaking soft and slow without condescending to him. Madara returns with a nurse and watches from the edge of the room, his eyes trained on Hashirama’s fingers, on his strong shoulders rolling beneath his clothes and his bright, dazzling smile. 

As he watches Hashirama, he thinks about how gently he’d cleaned the blood from under his fingernails the night they met. Truth be told, he can’t remember the last time he touched somebody- somebody that wasn’t a patient, anyways. His father had died nine, ten years ago now, right around the time he finished high school, and his mother had left with Izuna to live with their family in North Africa somewhere- Tunisia or Algeria or Morocco, Madara could never really remember, and it didn’t matter. Their country codes were always changing, letters always decorated with different stamps and addresses. There was an ocean between them either way, and there was nothing left for them here but Madara.

He couldn’t blame them for leaving. Madara could sustain himself, but to ask him to look after her and Izuna was a burden Azami refused to have him bear. Someday, Azami promised, they would find a decent, affordable surgeon overseas, and Izuna would be well and they could return to the states. Their visas would be sorted, and Madara wouldn’t have to tend to his family’s empty home alone- and if not, well, god damn it, he could visit them whenever he liked. 

So, in the meantime, Madara had his cats- slinky black and calico things that had taken up residence on the prayer rugs he kept on the bookshelf in the living room. He had Izuna to talk to when his shifts ended at a reasonable hour, and his mother’s letters and his father’s journals to read and re-read and re-read.

And now there’s Hashirama- beautiful, eager, compassionate, and evidently very interested in him. He’d even gone out of his way to convince all the nurses not to gossip to Hashirama, to make him earn the right to know Madara, and yet the man seemed insatiable; he’d asked just about every member of the hospital staff about him. Madara almost resented them that they listened to his stupid fucking request. 

That probably said a lot about his entitlement. 

Hashirama is touching his shoulder. 

“Mister Umino wants a picture of the two of us together.” 

Madara stammers. “Of us?” 

Hashirama laughs and claps Madara on the back, almost hard enough to knock the wind from him. It’s a full laugh. A beautiful laugh. Madara turns his head to the side and crinkles his nose to keep from smiling. 

“Of him and I. He thinks we look almost identical.” 

Madara narrows his eyes. The man, who introduces himself as Iruka, does look remarkably similar to Hashirama, though maybe a little bit less striking. His hair is held up in neat braids, his nose halved by a long scar, and his smile weary where Hashirama’s is unrelenting and bright. Then again, he has just come to the hospital to see his son fresh from a fistfight with a probable blowout fracture. Madara notices, with some small amount of amusement, that Naruto is snapping pictures on his cell phone of his bloodied eye and sticking his tongue out, forming awkward, unrehearsed signs with his hands to show off his bruised knuckles. Iruka gives Madara a small, sheepish smile. 

“Maori genes are strong, I guess.” 

Madara raises an eyebrow. 

“Yallah. I thought your last name was Senju.” 

Hashirama laughs again, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees. Madara thinks if anybody else laughed so boisterously, he’d find it obnoxious- but it’s Hashirama, and Madara is learning very quickly that Hashirama likes making him challenge his beliefs. 

Iruka hands Madara his phone, the same shy smile on his face. Hashirama throws an arm around Iruka’s shoulders and smiles so brightly and earnestly that Madara feels he should look away to keep from being blinded. 

  
  


Remarkably, Madara is still loitering in the ER after Naruto is discharged. 

Hashirama takes a minute to admire him from afar. He looks beyond exhausted, but his cheeks still have that healthy sheen to them that makes him look unfairly young. His dark hair is sticking to his cheek, loose from the low bun he’d swept it into, and Hashirama wants desperately to push it back into place, if only as a pretense to touch him. 

He crosses the room at a light jog, mindful of the nurses and doctors with their noses buried in charts. He looks up at him in a way that says he’d expected Hashirama to forget about him- it’s not quite surprise, but there’s no trace of the boredom or aloofness he thinks Madara might be capable of. 

“Hey,” Hashirama says breathlessly, “Madara, you’re incredible. I can’t thank you enough.”

Madara gapes at him for a moment, and arches his brows. 

“I didn’t do anything.” 

“I’ve never seen anybody so calm about having a blowout fracture.”

Madara shrugs, dismissively. “That kid has balls of steel.”

“He speaks beautiful Arabic.”

Madara hums affirmatively, and closes his eyes. 

“So do you.” 

Unthinkingly, Hashirama reaches out and tucks a stray piece of hair behind Madara’s ear. He runs his finger over a steel earring in the center of Madara’s cartilage, reveling in the way Madara opens his eyes just enough to study his face. 

“You’re surprisingly good at playing chase,” Hashirama murmurs, “Lucky you I didn’t think to check the staff directory until this morning.” 

Madara smiles lightly. “Do you generally like spending your mornings here?” 

Hashirama tacitly dodges the question. “Do you generally like spending your mornings in the suburbs?” 

Madara can’t help but to laugh a little. It comes out a tired sound. Hashirama suddenly feels very sad for him. He withdraws his touch and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, nervously fiddling with his pager. 

“I’m off call in a few hours. We could go get drinks.”

“I much prefer dancing.”

“Dually noted. Er-” Hashirama draws his pen from his pocket and rests it against the corner of his mouth, “You’ll come out with me tonight, though?” 

Madara softens a little. “I’ll go out with you tonight, Hashirama.” 

Hashirama beams at him. Madara’s pager buzzes, and he grimaces. 

“It’s alright,” Hashirama says quietly. 

“My last name is Uchiha, with a ‘U’. My cell phone number should be in the hospital directory, but if you can’t find it, I’m sure there’s some stone you’ve left unturned looking for me.” 

Madara is gone in a flash of navy and black before Hashirama can thank him again. 

It’s around nine, and there’s an hour or so left in his shift when his pager begins buzzing incessantly. He’s resting in the on-call room, fresh off a tour of the pediatric wing, nursing his last half-cup of coffee for the night and pouring over a literary magazine that an intern had abandoned on the corner table before he came in. 

Before he can turn his pager over to look at it, a nurse from the nearest station comes barrelling through the door. Hashirama starts a little, spilling a few spots of coffee over his thigh. He grimaces. The nurse gives him a skeptical look. 

“They need a consult in the emergency room.”

“Yes,” Hashirama says flatly, looking for something to blot the coffee on his scrubs with, “I just got the page, I think.” 

The nurse sucks her teeth. Hashirama looks at her exasperatedly. 

“I can page one of the other ophthalmologists instead.” 

“No, no, that’s alright. I’m on call for another hour anyways,” Hashirama finally settles on a crumpled napkin resting precariously between couch cushions and blots at his thigh, crinkling his nose as he does so. The nurse is still standing in the doorway. Hashirama’s pager emits a loud, shrill sound.

“Hashirama-”

“Sorry. I’m going-”

“Do you have what you need to operate?” 

Hashirama frowns. He sets the magazine back in its place on the corner table. 

“Everything except an actual operating room.” 

“The second room is open, I think. I’ll probably be joining you there shortly.” 

Without another word, Hashirama brushes past her and hurries down the nearest stairwell. 

The emergency room is surprisingly active. There’s a handful of cops spattered around, the nurses’ station nearly empty, and the first operating room apparently already occupied. There would be no point in interrupting somebody to ask exactly what was going on- instead he gets the attention of the nearest nurse, who whirls around and grimaces at him. 

“Er- I’m here to fulfill the ophthalmology consult?”

“Consult my ass. Third curtain. Have fun operating.”

Hashirama wrinkles his nose. 

The hospital smells particularly of antiseptic and steel tonight. That’s never a good sign. Hashirama can’t quite explain his malaise as he crosses the emergency room again; doctors have a certain sense about these things the same way animals start to act strange before a storm. 

When he parts the curtain, he blanches. 

He forgets he’s a doctor for maybe just a moment too long, because Madara looks... alarmed. Not that he didn’t look panicked already; he’s sitting still- unnervingly still- on the cot, his skin palid, and there’s a short length of razor blade wedged in his bottom left eyelid. 

Hashirama exhales sharply, and as if taking a cue, the nurse holding Madara’s chart abandons it at his feet and vanishes behind the curtains. There’s a handful of other nurses still in the room- Hashirama is distantly aware that they may be trying to talk to him- but he’s intently focused on Madara, the veritable cascade of blood rolling down his cheek in beads. Madara is watching him like a hawk, like a child, searching his features for some indication of how to act. Hashirama can’t help but to think Madara is so, so beautiful. He clears his throat and turns to the nearest nurse, dropping his voice to a whisper. 

“Go ahead and get the operating room ready. I don’t know who else is in there already, but get everything we’ll need for a uh-” he looks at Madara and winces, “A fairly standard foreign body removal. That should be a good start.” 

Unquestioningly, the nurse nods and motions to one of the other nurses milling about and they disappear behind the curtain.

“Hashirama?” 

He glances up to see Madara glowering at him, his brow furrowed, the muscles under his eye threatening to push the blade loose from his face. Hashirama closes the short distance between where he stands at the curtain and the edge of Madara’s bed, peripherally aware of how terribly he’s shaking despite the comparatively calm expression on his face. 

“Sit back,” he commands gently, “Try not to move.” 

Madara obliges with a small huff, resting back against the flat pillow, keeping his shoulders propped up so Hashirama can look at his injury more closely. “It’s not like it’s a cerebrospinal injury or something,” he tries, “It feels very… superficial.” 

Hashirama takes his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and scrambles for his flashlight. He clears his throat, trying to recompose himself as quickly as possible. 

There’s very clearly a traumatic cataract already forming in Madara’s injured eye, a bright and admittedly striking opalescent blue against his dark iris. His pupil is stubbornly blown, his cornea and sclera visibly scratched and bloodied, and the added issue of the razor still embedded in his face. It’s not the worst injury Hashirama has had to treat- not by a longshot- but it’s still unsettling, and doubly so because it’s Madara. 

“...We had a combative psych patient,” Madara says quietly, “It wasn’t his fault. I shouldn’t have startled him.” 

Hashirama sucks his teeth. Carefully, he reaches out and cups Madara’s jaw, turning his head to the side slightly to get a better look at his injury. “What happened?” he asks, silently reveling when he feels Madara press into his touch. Madara starts to close his eyes, but the blade wedged in his face keeps him from shutting his left eye all the way. A fresh trickle of pinkish blood runs down his cheek and over Hashirama’s fingers. Mentally, Hashirama makes a note to remember to wash his hands thoroughly before he starts operating- and maybe to remember to wear gloves next time.

Madara shrugs. “He was lying down crying or in hysterics or whatever, and I put my hand on his shoulder and he headbutted me.” 

“And the razor blade?” 

“He had it under his  _ tongue _ ,” Madara says incredulously, a bit of that wry humor creeping back into his voice, “His fucking tongue. Can you believe that?” 

Hashirama can’t help but snort at that. He runs his finger over Madara’s jaw distractedly. 

“Better me than a cop, I guess,” Madara mutters, “They would’ve shot the poor bastard, no questions asked.” 

“Let’s not get political before I operate on you,” Hashirama says, trying for playfulness. Madara’s eyes fly open.

“You’re operating on me?” 

Hashirama flinches. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can page the other-”

“No,” Madara says very quickly, “No, no. I’ve just-” he grimaces, “I’ve never had- uh- I’ve never had surgery before.” 

“Oh.” 

Hashirama makes a soft, sympathetic sound. He takes a seat on the edge of Madara’s bed, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scanning the room once before resting his hand over Madara’s. Madara’s expression softens a bit, but Hashirama can feel his eyes scanning his face again, searching for some clue about how serious his injury is, about how he should react, if it’s okay to react at all. Hashirama smiles gently. 

“Has your emergency contact been called already?” 

Madara goes incredibly still. Hashirama frowns. 

“Madara?” 

Madara looks away from him pointedly, grimacing enough that Hashirama can see the razor blade start to shift. Without thinking, he jerks forward and catches Madara’s face in his hands, holding him loosely in place. Madara gives him a despairing look. 

Hashirama understands. His chest tightens a little. 

“Do you live alone?” he asks quietly. Madara drops his eyes again. 

Hashirama lets himself linger for a moment longer. When he comes away, his hands are sticky with Madara’s blood. He wipes his hands on his thighs, having already given up counting the health code violations he’s committed in the past few minutes. Hopefully Madara won’t sue him for malpractice. 

“We can worry about it later,” he says, inching closer to Madara. He can practically hear the two remaining nurses in the room roll their eyes, but Madara is looking to him like he wants nothing more than to lunge forward and grab his shoulders and not let go. 

“I’ll take good care of you,” he promises, “I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

Madara smiles, and despite his better judgement, he leans forward and rests his forehead very lightly against Hashirama’s. 

  
  
  


“You know,” Madara says distantly, “When you said you’d be with me the whole time, I didn’t realize this is what you meant.” 

Hashirama snorts. Madara can’t see his mouth through the surgical mask, but he can see his eyes crinkle up at the corners in a smile, and it feels like a small weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

They’re about five minutes into the procedure, and Hashirama is hovering over him with a pair of tweezers and what looks like one of the vacuums that dentists use to suck the plaque out of your mouth. The razor blade is about halfway out of his face now, but still a sharp point against his eye. It’s almost pleasant compared to the cold steel of the speculum holding his eye open.

Madara bites the inside of his cheek. Izuna has eye surgeries all the time. He never complains, because he’s strong in all the ways Madara just isn’t. 

Hashirama pinches the loose edge of the razor blade. 

“Wait-” Madara says suddenly, cursing himself for how hysterical he sounds. Hashirama complies, unquestioningly. Madara has the distinct impression that the man would do just about anything he asked, and his stomach tightens. 

“Everything alright?” Hashirama asks honestly, his eyebrows raised. The bright, whitish light behind his head makes gives him the illusion of wearing a halo. Madara thinks that’s fitting.

“What’s the worst case scenario? Should I have asked you before we started?” 

“Hm,” Hashirama leans forward again and Madara goes shock still, “I suppose-” he grips the edge of the razor blade a little tighter, “I could pull this loose at such an angle that your blood sprays in my face and blinds me-” Madara bites his tongue to keep from yowling as Hashirama jerks his wrist upward and pulls the razor blade from his eye. Hashirama takes a brief pause to press a length of gauze under Madara’s eye, putting a considerable amount of pressure on his cheek to try and stem the bleeding. Madara tries to focus on the feeling of Hashirama’s hand on his face, heavy and hot and sure. 

“And in my panic, I crash through the window and drown in the sink and you die of blood loss while waiting for the other opthamologist to get here.” 

Madara laughs- he knows how hysterical he’s starting to sound, can practically feel the hot, sour stares of the assisting nurses from the edges and corners of the operating room, but he looks up at Hashirama again and smiles broadly. He’s peripherally aware now of how lopsided his vision feels, and the realization erases a little bit of the humor from him. 

“You’re going to have a pretty horrific black eye after this,” Hashirama says gently, quickly swapping the soiled gauze under his eye for a fresh square, “And even if everything else goes perfectly, you can expect to have some problems with your vision for a while, in addition to some soreness, discomfort, balance problems, high risk for infection, etcetera.” 

Madara licks his lips. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“No,” Hashirama says baldly, and drops his voice to a whisper, “But I have the next two days off, and if you’ll let me, I’d love to spend them taking care of you.” 

Madara’s mouth falls open a little. “Is that- Is that ethical?” 

“Keep still,” Hashirama reminds him, “Frankly, I’ve been told that most of the things I do fall into an ethical gray area.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Hashirama laughs lightly, “My brother is a philosophy professor in Hartford. He really likes ethics- I mean, he really, really likes ethics. He’s hoping to teach at Princeton or something prestigious. I think it’s just an excuse to be close to me again.” Madara hears the wheels of Hashirama’s stool squeak against the floor as he leans over to flip a switch somewhere below the operating table. “...Do you have any siblings, Madara?” 

Madara hums thoughtfully. “I’m one of five, but three of my brothers are dead.” 

“Oh,” Hashirama brushes his fingers over his temple, “I’m sorry. And what about your fourth brother?” 

“Uhm- I never really got to know them. They were fairly young when they died. Healthcare where I grew up was… less than adequate, for a while.” He licks his lips, twitching a little when Hashirama starts prodding at his eye again. “Izuna lives with my mother in North Africa somewhere.” 

“Izuna’s your fourth brother, then?” 

Madara makes a soft, pained sound, and crinkles his nose, straining against the speculum a little. “I’m- I’m sorry, can we change the subject?” 

“Of course,” Hashirama says, so gently it makes Madara feel a little bit lightheaded, “Ah, where are you-” he jerks his wrist a little, and Madara flinches despite not being able to feel anything, really, “Where are you from?” 

“That’s a hard question,” Madara says tightly, managing a small, nervous laugh, “I was born outside Rabat, and I grew up between New York and a village east of Cairo. My mother is from Cairo, and my father is from some tiny prefecture in Japan.”

“Rabat?” Hashirama asks, raising his eyebrows, “No shit.” 

A bolt of pain shoots down the side of Madara’s face and he sucks in a harsh breath. Hashirama’s free hand comes to rest flat against the side of his face to keep him still, and Madara looks up at him pleadingly. 

“Let’s take a minute,” Hashirama says quietly, his eyes bright and understanding. Madara tries to close his eyes. When he finds that he can’t, still, he tries to focus on the feather-light weight of Hashirama’s thumb against his cheek, tracing small circles over the last, stubborn, dried-up patches of his blood. “I want to get a better look at what I’m dealing with anyways.” 

By the time Hashirama puts the last suture in, Madara is practically inconsolable. 

Under the circumstances, the nurses follow the procedures the best they can- and then leave the two of them alone in the operating room. Hashirama, having abandoned his equipment and shut off the overhead lights, spares a glance up at the theater once more to make sure it’s empty, and then returns his attention to Madara. 

His breath comes in shallow, panicked intervals. His eyes are still lucid and bright but his face is set in a scowl, his brow furrowed and his nostrils flaring. Hashirama quickly snaps his gloves off and tosses them vaguely in the direction of the nearest wastebin. 

Madara looks up at him. He’s distraught, clearly, but otherwise, his expression is strangely unreadable. Hashirama leans forward and rests their foreheads together, reaching down and resting both of his hands along Madara’s biceps. His glasses slide forward a bit and tangle themselves in the front of Madara’s hair. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Hashirama tries, gently running his thumbs over Madara’s bare arms. Madara doesn’t answer, but he manages to draw a steadying breath. Without thinking, Hashirama presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Hashirama?” Madara’s voice comes out a little hoarse, a little rattling. Hashirama kisses him again, splaying his fingers open as Madara reaches for his hands. 

“Yeah?” 

“...Can you take me home?” 

Hashirama laughs softly. “Is that ethical?” 

“Please,” Madara says, hysterical and humorless. Hashirama feels a pang of guilt. 

“Your place or mine?” he asks seriously. 

Madara sighs, and his features unpinch a little. “I have to check on my cats. I think they’ll like you.” 

Hashirama hesitates for a moment. Madara is lying prone on his operating table, hysterical and lonely and freshly sutured, no doubt coming off the Myers cocktail they’d given him to relax- but he’s still beautiful. He’s still so, so beautiful. Hashirama reaches up and holds his hair out of his face, then leans forward slightly and kisses the corner of Madara’s mouth. 

Madara looks up at him, starry eyed, before he exhales harshly against his lips and returns the kiss. 

Hashirama smiles against him, dropping his hair and stroking up the length of Madara’s neck, counting his heartbeats. The angle of the kiss is a little awkward, but Madara’s gratitude- no, his utter adoration- is so palpable that it makes up for the strain in his shoulders. 

  
  


Madara falls asleep in the passenger seat of Hashirama’s car not three minutes into the drive to Madison. He’s wearing one of Hashirama’s sweatshirts and a pair of his spare scrubs, Hashirama’s glasses slipping off his face as he snores. He’d slipped them off his face in the parking lot as Hashirama struggled with securing the overnight bag he kept in his locker in the backseat, scrambling for Madara’s wallet where it had fallen into the opening between the passenger seat and the console. 

Madara had kissed him again, hungry and tired, and run his fingers over the temples of his glasses. 

“Do you need these to drive?”

“Not really,” Hashirama had said quietly, “You can have them for now.” 

“Good,” Madara replied, snatching them off his face, “Since you blinded me. I’m suing you for malpractice, by the way.”

Hashirama scoffed. “You’re sure you’re alright with me coming home with you? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I don’t know how the fuck I’d get home if you didn’t take me,” Madara said tiredly, “If you need me to sign something, or whatever, I’ll gladly sign it. Otherwise, I’ll reassure you every thirty seconds that I-” he swallows thickly, and licks his lips, “I want this every bit as much as you do.”

Hashirama calls Tobirama once they’re out of the city, adjusting the volume on his phone so that it’s low enough to keep him on speaker without disturbing Madara. It takes a few tries to get through to him, and Tobirama is unsurprisingly panicked when he picks up.

“Anija,” Tobirama says seriously, “Is everything alright?” 

“Kia tau,” Hashirama chastises, “Calm down. Everything is fine. I have an ethics question for you.” 

“For the love of-” Tobirama gives a long-suffering sigh, “At one in the morning?” 

“Precisely.” 

“...Alright. What’s your question?” 

“It’s a medical ethics question,” Hashirama says sheepishly. He spares a glance at Madara, sleeping soundly beside him. Even fresh out of surgery and strung out on a Myers cocktail, he’s unfairly good looking. 

“Anija, what’s your question? I have an eight o’clock lecture in the morning.” 

“Hypothetically-”

“Jesus Christ almighty, Anija-”

“Hypothetically,” Hashirama says again, “Let’s say I had made plans with a friend for after my shift, but before my shift ends, hypothetically, my friend comes into the emergency room with a traumatic eye injury and I’m the only opthamologist on campus.” 

“You’re pushing it already. You’re fine, legally speaking, but ethically, I think you’re pushing it.” 

Hashirama cringes, but continues, “And let’s say this friend lives alone in Madison, has no other friends or family to speak of, and asks me to take him home.” 

He can very clearly picture Tobirama pinching the bridge of his nose. He says nothing. 

“And let’s say, hypothetically, this friend is… um-” he spares a quick, appreciative glance at Madara, “Responsible, and witty, and striking like nothing you’ve ever seen before-”

“Oh my god-” 

“And he asks me to spend the next two days with him making sure he’s cared for like he deserves-” 

“Anija, your chief of surgery is going to mount your head on a  _ pike _ .”

“Ashura loves me!” Hashirama protests, a little too loudly. Madara groans in his sleep. 

“Is there somebody in the car with you?” 

“...No.” 

Tobirama sighs dramatically. “Look,” he groans, “I don’t think you’re… violating any laws or anything, but for all intents and purposes, please consider this something that falls in the scope of your infamous ethical gray area.” 

“Infamous, huh?” Hashirama huffs. He pauses for a moment, listening as Tobirama heaves another, quieter sigh. “I miss you, Tobirama. If Ashura tries to fire me for this, will you act as my attorney?” 

“He’s not going to fire you,” Tobirama mutters, “You’re overdue for a tongue lashing, sure, but I don’t think he’ll fire you.” 

“Okay,” Hashirama says, smiling lightly, “Thank you, Tobirama.”

“You’re welcome,” Tobirama says, exasperated, “I love you, Anija. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Moonchild. I’ll see you soon?” 

“Yes,” Tobirama says dryly, “For your arraignment.” 

Madara wakes up to the feather-light feeling of Hashirama’s fingers on his left cheek. Unthinkingly, he leans into the touch, breathing in the faint smell of antiseptic and the morning’s cologne. 

“Where should I park?” Hashirama whispers. Madara opens his eyes a little and smiles. 

“You didn’t get lost on the way.” 

“You gave me your address,” Hashirama soffs, reaching to brush Madara’s hair behind his ear. 

“I get lost in Madison all the time, and I usually just walk from the train station,” Madara murmurs, “All the houses look the same.” 

“Which house is yours?” Hashirama asks gently, “Er- which driveway should I park in?” 

“...The one with the lion statues out front.” 

Hashirama snickers and puts the car in reverse, backing into Madara’s driveway so quickly he nearly rips the suspension out from under him. He gives Madara an apologetic look, and Madara kisses him as he puts the car in park. Hashirama smiles against his lips, withdraws a little, but keeps their foreheads together.

“Are you feeling alright?” Hashirama asks, stroking his cheek.

“I’m a little sore,” Madara murmurs against his lips, “And not in the good way.” 

“Can you feel sore in a good way?” Hashirama asks playfully. Madara kisses him again, but doesn’t elaborate. 

Hashirama gets out of the car first, slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder and pocketing Madara’s wallet before circling around to help him out of the passenger’s seat. Madara takes his hand without hesitation, using Hashirama as a failsafe should his legs decide to give out under him. 

His house is unique, all things considered. It looks almost identical to the houses around it- modern and plain with extra, useless windows here and there- but there are warm, inviting lights on throughout the house, intricately detailed lace curtains, and a small black cat mewling on the living room windowsill, not to mention the twin lion statues flanking the front door, the screened-in front porch overcrowded with houseplants and white wicker chairs, the sprawling, overgrown carpet of ivy and creeping jenny winding up the front of the house like hellfire. 

Suffice to say, it’s a home, even if it’s an empty one.

Hashirama jerks a bit when Madara dives into his pocket and snatches his wallet with his free hand, thumbing through it clumsily and then drawing a house key from behind his driver’s license with his teeth. 

“Did you grab my cell phone?” Madara asks distantly. 

Hashirama pats his pockets and nods. “Yeah, I got it.” 

“Dare I ask where I left it?” Madara unlocks the door screen door clumsily, almost dropping the key once. He elbows the screen door open and drops to his haunces aside a potted palm and draws a second key from the soil, shaking it clean. Hashirama smiles slightly. 

“It was on the edge of the cot. It must have fallen out of your pocket when you got changed, so I grabbed it.” He watches transfixed as Madara crosses behind them to lock the screen and then turns around to unlock the heavy door. It’s a little paranoid, maybe- Madison is almost unsettling in how safe and quiet it seems- but it’s mostly endearing, the way Madara has designed and perfected this little ritual of locking and unlocking his home so much that even a traumatic eye injury doesn’t sway him from his beaten path. Or maybe he’s overthinking it. That’s entirely possible. He might just be so deeply infatuated with Madara that watching him navigate the tiny jungle of his front porch for hidden keys is the most mystifying thing in the world. 

Madara puts the first key back into his wallet and pops the front door open. He ushers Hashirama inside quickly and locks the door behind them. Almost immediately, Madara’s cats scamper over and start pawing at the hems of his slacks, mewling pitifully. Hashirama smiles down at them, squatting down to scratch behind their ears. 

“The black one’s name is Yon,” Madara says quietly, slowly sitting down beside him with his back against the front door. The second cat is pudgy and calico-colored, and leaps over Hashirama’s outstretched leg to nuzzle against Madara’s hip. 

“This is Gaspar,” Madara scoops the cat up and holds him by his underarms, smiling tiredly at Hashirama. Gaspar blinks lazily at him, and mewls. Hashirama scratches under his chin. 

“Are they hungry?” 

Madara kisses Gaspar’s head and hums. “They’re whiny. I feed them plenty. They have one of those fancy cat food dispensers so they can feed themselves. It’s probably not a good idea, because Gaspar is overweight. He stress eats. Not that he has anything to stress eat about.” 

At his knees, Yon makes a chattering sound. Hashirama flexes his fingers as if he were extending his claws, and the cat immediately yowls and streaks away, taking refuge under a nearby armchair. 

Indeed, most of the lights are on, albeit dim. Madara’s house is immaculately clean but for an overstuffed recliner in the corner aside a stack of books and a small spread of paperwork, a small nest of microsuede blankets in a pile on the floor. The foyer gives way to the living room, lined on all sides by floor to ceiling bookshelves, a cat condo for the centerpiece. There’s a small island in the kitchen, tiny piles of produce and boxes of tea scattered about, the occasional houseplant here and there. There’s a stairwell leading upstairs, and a door opening to the master bedroom on the first floor. 

It’s homey, to say the least, unbecoming of somebody as severe as Madara, but pleasantly surprising. Hashirama gets to his feet slowly, leaving Madara sitting against the door with Gaspar. 

“Make yourself at home,” Madara says seriously, “I like to sleep in my parents’ bedroom, but there’s three more bedrooms and a spare bathroom upstairs.” 

“Well,” Hashirama studies a sepia-toned family photo pinned to the side of a bookshelf, “Where would you like me?” He turns around to see Madara still stroking Gaspar’s back, giving him an indignant expression like he shouldn’t have to ask him at all. Hashirama turns back to the picture for a moment. In it, he can clearly see that one of the three children is blind. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, but his smile is genuine, almost as dazzling as Madara’s. Behind him, Madara is wearing a loose, checkered scarf and brooding, but his hands are set protectively on either of his younger brother’s shoulders. 

“You’re so cute,” Hashirama murmurs, running his finger over the edge of the photograph, “...Are these your brothers?” 

Madara sniffs. Hashirama looks over his shoulder and meets his eyes. 

“Izuna’s the blind one,” he says baldly, “He had some kind of infection when he was little, and it never really went away.”

“Ah-” Hashirama swallows thickly and looks at the picture once more, and then tears his eyes away. 

  
  


He showers in the guestroom, taking his time to scrub the stench and soreness of surgery from beneath his fingernails, to wash it from his forearms and hair. For somebody who very rarely has visitors, Madara keeps the guest bathroom remarkably, almost comically well stocked with soaps and shampoos, delicately embroidered towels and fragrant lotion.

“I like couponing,” he had said sheepishly, nursing a glass of ice water as he gave Hashirama a short tour of his house, “...Like, I really like couponing. I don’t have a lot of vices, but I buy a lot of shit I don’t need.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hashiarma murmured. He closed the gap between them and kissed him quickly, reveling at the coolness and softness of Madara’s lips. Madara hummed softly, reached around to set his glass on the edge of the sink and wrapped his arms around Hashirama’s neck, pulled him closer and kissed him deeply. 

In the hallway, one of the cats mewled loudly, and Madara withdrew, his eyes tired and half open and freshly sutured and so, so beautiful as he looked over Hashirama’s face. 

“When you’re clean, come downstairs,” Madara said softly, “Do you need to eat something?” 

“What do you have?”

Madara scratched his nose. “Yogurt. Fruit. Ice cream. I don’t know. I could defrost chicken or something.”

“Don’t worry about it. We can play it by ear.” 

“Play it by ear. Wallah. Okay. You have fun with that,” Madara said, turning to leave, “I’m going to go cut up some oranges and a pomegranate and get in bed.” 

Hashirama snorted and shut the door behind Madara.

He finishes his shower quickly and towels off, rummaging through his overnight bag for a second pair of sweats and a clean shirt. He comes up more or less empty-handed- he finds an oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He makes a mental note to do his laundry when he gets home- which, he remembers, quite inconveniently might be in two or three days. In the meantime, Madara probably has clothes that will fit him- not that he’s particularly excited about asking. 

Yon is waiting outside the door for him, flicking his tail and glowering. Hashirama laughs softly and scoops him up, balancing him on his forearm as he starts down the stairs. Madara had turned the lights in the front room and foyer off, leaving only the kitchen lights still on. There’s a cutting board in the sink stained blood-pink from pomegranates, and a short length of orange peel on the counter. Gaspar is pacing the length of the island, batting around a tiny tangle of silk. 

Hashirama sets Yon gently on the ground, and follows after him into the master bedroom. It’s dimly lit by string lights, mostly empty but for a short stack of books, an abundance of throw pillows, and a tiny collection of crystal points aside a glass jar of beads on a bench by the window. Madara is lying on his side holding an icepack over his eye with one hand, picking at a plate of fruit with the other. Hashirama tries not to think about the long, broad swatch of Madara’s exposed skin where his sweatshirt is hiked up, and about the metal bar glittering in the hollow of his naval. 

“Hi,” Hashirama says nervously, lingering in the doorway. Madara props himself up, switching hands to keep the icepack on his face. 

“Do you want to come lay with me?” Madara asks, unabashedly hopeful. Hashirama smiles and crosses the room, lowering himself into bed with a soft sigh and settling back against the cushiony headboard. Madara reaches over him and sets the half-full plate on the nightstand, purposefully dragging his hand over Hashirama’s chest as he settles back in. 

“You’re on my side,” he says blandly, “I saved you some orange slices.” 

“I’ll eat in a minute,” Hashirama murmurs, turning on his side, “Let me look at your eye first.” 

“Sure,” Madara says, a twinge of nervousness in his voice. He sits upright and crosses his legs, tossing the ice pack to the foot of the bed, startling Yon where he had been resting by Madara’s feet. Hashirama positions himself so he’s sitting with one leg bent at his side, the other outstretched and brushing Madara’s knee. 

He cups Madara’s jaw and turns his head to the side slightly, admiring him for a moment. In the stillness of the late night- or early morning, really- he can hear Madara’s breathing, slow and even, can see the tiredness etched into every soft line of his face. His hair is hanging down his back in loose, dark curls, held out of his face by a yellow hair clip he must have found lying around the bedroom somewhere. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Hashirama says suddenly. Madara smiles and closes his eyes gently, pressing into his hand. 

“I mean it,” he continues, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t explain it if my life depended on it.”

Madara exhales shakily, slowly reaching up to rest his hand on Hashirama’s wrist. 

“I’m sorry if I’m moving too fast,” Hashirama whispers, leaning forward slightly, “I don’t know if you’re sitting here wishing we could have done this right, or if you even believe there’s a right way to do this, or if you’re perfectly happy to be alive and kissing me every five minutes even though we’ve really just met-”

“I think,” Madara interrupts, opening his eyes a little, “You’re going to be very, very easy for me to fall in love with.” 

“Ah-” Hashirama swallows hard and covers his face with the back of his hand, turning his face from Madara, “Does your eye still hurt?” 

“Terribly,” Madara replies. He raises his hips slightly and pulls himself up into Hashirama’s lap, draping his arms across his shoulders and resting their noses together. Instinctively, Hashirama reaches up and rests his hands on Madara’s hips, pushing his shirt up slightly to trace arcs on his bare waist with his thumbs.

“You don’t have to fuck me,” Madara says quickly, “Not tonight. Not if you don’t want to.” 

Hashirama stifles a groan as Madara leans forward and rests his head on his shoulder, pressing their chests together. He squeezes his waist a little too tightly, a little too eagerly- he can hear Madara draw a sharp, startled breath. 

“Do you-” Hashirama breathes in deeply, running his hands up Madara’s back to his shoulders, and then down to his hips again, “Did you want to…?” 

He can feel Madara crinkle his nose against his neck, and he lets out a loud, nervous laugh, squeezing his waist again. 

“That’s fine,” he promises, “We’ll go at your pace, Madara. We’re probably both more exhausted than we realize.”

“Yeah,” Madara laughs, kissing the side of his neck and sitting back again, still gripping his shoulders, “No offense, but I’d probably fall asleep.”

Hashirama laughs, and Madara can’t help but to think what a beautiful, beautiful sound it is. He rolls off Hashirama’s lap and stretches out on his side, tucking his knees up a little bit so the cats can sleep in the crook of his legs if they want. He watches, awestruck, his eyes still tight with strain, as Hashirama finishes the plate of fruit he’d left out. Every so often, Hashirama will pause mid-chew to smile at him and look like he’s going to choke from stifling his laughter. 

When he finishes, he sets the plate aside and climbs under the covers, immediately reaching out to touch the injured side of Madara’s face. 

“Do you want me to turn the lights out?” Madara asks, stifling a yawn. Hashirama shakes his head. 

“Not if you don’t want to. I’ll probably wake up about a hundred times in the night to make sure you’re okay.”

With no small amount of difficulty, Madara rolls his eyes. 

“Should I get used to that?”

“Pardon?” 

“Should I expect you to wake up and check on me a million times whenever we sleep together?” 

Hashirama laughs again, softer this time. Gaspar leaps onto the bed and starts spinning circles at their feet. Unthinkingly, Madara shifts closer and throws his leg over Hashirama’s waist, tucking his head against his shoulder and exhaling slowly. 

“Maybe,” Hashirama murmurs, kissing his forehead, “I might just wake up so I can stare at you for a few minutes at a time.” 

“Don’t be weird,” Madara huffs. 

“Sorry.”

They kiss for a few minutes then, pausing to draw steadying breaths and to shift closer to each other. From the corner of his eye, Hashirama can see the cats raise their heads every so often, clearly not too pleased with being displaced from their resting spots. He gives them a look that he hopes registers as apologetic- but not too apologetic.

Unsurprisingly, Madara ends up falling asleep mid-kiss with the tip of his nose pressed against Hashirama’s. He snores lightly and only intermittently, enough that Hashirama notices but not so much that it’s disruptive.

Hashirama kisses his top lip once, and then the blossoming bruise beneath his eye. Some part of him knows it would probably be easier to just get the icepack from wherever it had fallen and hold it against Madara’s cheek to keep the swelling from getting worse, but his lips are full and slightly parted and right there for him to kiss until he falls asleep too, and it would be a shame to disturb him when he was already so tired. 

When he looks at Madara, he gets the sense that things will be easy for the both of them someday. He thinks about Izuna- thinks about how Tobirama would probably be able to help him fill out a new visa or something, thinks about all the money in his own bank account sitting untouched and accruing daily interest cent by cent, thinks about all the ways he could spoil Madara like it would ever make up for all the years he’d spent alone. 

When he looks at Madara, all he can think about is all the stardust and spoils of the universe beneath his fingernails like blood. 

When Madara wakes up, he looks through the curtain of his hair and sees Hashirama beside him, his dark, satiny hair turning gold in the orange of the sunrise cutting through his curtains. He kisses him sweetly, once, and lets himself fall back asleep. 

It’s the first time in a long time that he’s had something so precious only an arm’s length away and not an ocean’s. Hashirama is beautiful, and sleeping here beside him. 

**Author's Note:**

> kia tau: maori, meaning "settle down"
> 
> ill fix the full arabic translation when im more awake:  
> essentially, madara introduces naruto to hashirama and says hes a fantastic doctor, and that he's in good hands, but hashirama cant speak any arabic so he has to speak english
> 
> yallah means "oh god" and wallah means "i swear to god"


End file.
